


Touch of Rapture

by PacketofRedApples



Category: Alan Wake (Video Game)
Genre: Head Injury, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Memory Loss, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-09
Updated: 2019-10-18
Packaged: 2019-11-14 09:00:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18049517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PacketofRedApples/pseuds/PacketofRedApples
Summary: Alan falls off the cliff like he always does.What Scratch didn't anticipate was the blood.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> UGH I wasn't gonna go about publishing this till it was finished but here I am.  
> Do critique it so I could come back and improve it, please!  
> I have some things in mind for the future of this story but we'll see how it plays out.

Usually, Scratch would stand by for a second just for his own amusement to watch Alan scramble up on his feet and stalk into battle against the TAKEN. This time, however, his grin soon fell. Instead, as he stood—there was a halo of crimson forming around the writer’s head. This… was not good. Sure, Mr. Scratch had intents to murder the champion of light eventually, but—this was unplanned and too soon. Also, he had wanted him to suffer much, much more in the dark place first. After all, Night Springs had so much to offer.

Soon the Herald ran through what to do—Thomas Zane and Barbara Jagger (or what remains of them) were nowhere near to give advice—not that the first would and he already knew what the second’s advice would be. Instead, this meant Scratch had to think for himself. So he did. He took the writer to the motel, his room and ran water gently at the wound. It minimized bleeding eventually and with that achieved, after making sure the writer still had a steady pulse, he took him to the bed where he laid him down gingerly and let him rest.

Sometime later… well, a lot of time later Alan awoke, for a start—it always was the start—and he could instantly feel his head pounding. It hurt like a son of a bitch, especially the back of it. He reached behind, to touch it and was surprised to discover sticky hair and wet skin. Also, it didn’t help the pain. With the contact occurring—it hurt even more. The man couldn’t withhold the hiss.

“Careful, Alan.”  A voice, clear as day and as there as the never-ending squeal he has in his ears right now.

And with that, Wake jumped up in bed despite himself and wide-eyed looked at the shadowy corner of the room where the voice came from. He could just about make out the body of a suited man, but not his face. His head scolded him for the sudden movement soon after. Alan muttered some curses as a result. He balled up the sheets under his hands, screwing his eyes shut for a second before he could manage the pain.

“Who are you?” Alan finally asked, and it was enough to see the odd movement in the shadows, but it wasn’t clear on what it was.

“What?” The tone is clearly confused, too clearly, it’s almost funny to Alan but instead, he frowns.

“The question is simple enough.”

“How do you not recognize me—I’m Mr. ---“some noise messes with the entire sentence, Alan isn’t sure where it came from but he couldn’t hear the name being said. He further furrows his brown.

“Sorry, I didn’t hear you.” He says honestly.

“Stop fucking around, Wake!”  The other is unreasonably angry. Alan shook his head lightly.

“I’m not fucking around, I genuinely have no idea who you are.” The other person paused. Reassessing the scene, perhaps. “But if I know you, it might be easier to recognize you if you showed your face.”

“You wouldn’t be too overjoyed at seeing my face…”

A chuckle leaves Alan.

“Really? What are you? The Phantom?”

“Let’s say, something like that. For now, go back to sleep.”

Alan would press on, hell, he was even about to do so but passes out as it seems to grow darker in the room. Or at least he doesn’t remember much after that sentence was uttered by the other. The weakness overtakes him as his eyes suddenly grow clouded.

* * *

 

When he woke up, the room was lit by strong sunlight coming in through the window, rays touching his face.

Alan sneezes and sits up, rubbing his nose and feeling more tired than he could have anticipated. Getting off the bed with a loud high-pitched cry from the mattress’ springs. Wake winces at the noise before taking some wobbly steps around the room. He spots a stain on the carpet, dry and dark even, causing concern in him. He walks to the window, looking out and once again carefully moving to touch the wound. It still hurts, but at this point, it wasn’t a matter of concern. It seemed like he would live. Instead, he should worry about where he was and who the other man would happen to be.

He sighs, however, walking into the bathroom, planning to clean the injury with water before seeking out more help. He was sure there must be a doctor somewhere in town. Yet, he halts in the spot, seeing the unmistakably red staining the bath. Was that his blood? Did he really lose that much of it? It couldn’t be… that made no sense. Paler than before, Alan stepped out of the small room and slowly walked to the bed. He sat there for a good several minutes, shocked, before getting a grip of himself and deciding that finding a doctor was a better idea.

Too late he learns there is none close by. The town is empty… if you could say there even was a town. Or maybe there was one further in the horizon? Regardless, he’d need a car to pass that distance, but there was none in sight despite him realizing that he was located somewhere in the outskirts of it. Possibly. He could figure there were a gas station and a garage near the motel but he didn’t find a single vehicle in sight.

So instead he walks into the small store, only to see that despite the sign reading ‘open’ there was not a single person in there. He picks up a bag of frozen goods, but nobody comes to the counter when he approaches it… So he waits. Waits till something shuffles out from the back room. A light-skinned man, looking like he hasn’t seen the sun in decades.

He looks at what Alan has in hand and shakes his head. His name tag reads ‘Freddy.’ Alan is off put when the person just glares at him for a full on minute and only then bothers to enter something into the cash register without a single word. 

Looking at the entered price Alan reaches into his pocket only to find his wallet empty. Not a single dollar, not a single penny. He sighs, frustrated. This was not good. Seems he wasn’t a man of much luck. The clerk looks at him, before dragging the icy bag closer to himself and glaring at the other man.

Alan sighs and walks out. He needed help with his wound. This wasn’t going to end well otherwise. Only after that could he bother figuring out where he is and why.

The sun shone bright, hurting the writer’s eyes. But he still could manage to see the figure of the enigmatic individual who rejected to introduce himself standing further off by the gas station—umbrella in hand protecting him from the sun and a clown mask on his face. It was an odd sight, to say the least. However, Alan recalled seeing those specific masks in the gas station store. Awful things looking like they have been taken straight out of the 1950s. Made for kids, but no kid could probably look at it without getting nightmares, let alone hold it and put it on. Alan shifted before approaching the man.

“That mask is a bit too small for your face, isn’t it?” Alan said as he got close enough.

“Suppose it is, but I couldn’t do too much about that.” The other replies, steady in tone.

“Why don’t you want anyone to see your face?”

“That’s for me to know.”

They stare at each other for a second, before Alan steps closer again.

“Do you happen to have some cash? I need something to cool down my cut, or I need to at least see a doctor.”

“There is no doctor here.” The stranger answers far too quickly. “You didn’t make it so that there’d be a doctor here.”

"Huh? What do you mean I didn't--?"

"Shit...you really don't remember." The other sounds increasingly more frustrated. Alan approaches him to step into his space, only so he could look into his eyes.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"You'll see eventually."

Annoyed about being kept in the dark, Alan’s hand slowly rose to take off the mask, but then the other spoke, stopping him in the spot.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you… You might not like what you see.”

"Seriously, just show me your god damn face! I need help; I don't have time for games." He once more moves to grab the mask, the stranger quickly grabs his wrist and presses strongly to keep it in place. The grip is tight and it hurts as if his bone was being bent… Alan withheld any noise he could have made then. Instead, choosing to glare and pull his hand back. No success.

“You’ve always been too stubborn for your own good.”

“Who are you?” The stranger let’s go and begins to turn and walk away. Alan doesn’t let up. Instead without even a hint of hesitation, he walks after the suited man and grabs the bastard to look at him. Or so he tries. The other shakes him off and continues walking. “Answer me, god damn it!”

He can't stand any more of it; he grabs Alan by the face in seconds, squeezing it in his hand, bringing him closer into proximity. Their foreheads press against each other, skin separated only by the cheap plastic.

"Shut. Up. I got enough problems as is now without your complaining."

“Screw you. Just tell me who you are.” Alan grits his teeth, flashing them momentarily.

“You’re a miserable writer to have done this.”

“Writer? I was a hobbyist at best!” An honest moment, sure he always wanted to be a writer but that never worked out. Right? Quite upsetting to recall.

A pause, as the other’s eyes study him and then he pulls away, throwing his hands in frustration.

“This just keeps getting better and better…” The hell? The stranger walks away and Wake doesn’t have the energy or mental capacity to follow.

Instead, he walks back to the motel room, running the cold water in the sink and splashing his face with some of it. He needed a rest; a nap seemed like a good call.

So when he lies back down on the uncomfortable bed, he wraps himself up in a ball. Feeling constantly tired was probably not a good sign, but he feels like he was doing something big, something important before this bullshit started—he just can’t remember what.

By the point, he comes to consciousness, its night time again, and he feels groggier and rigid. After all, it was not a good call.  The nap might as well have destroyed his last remaining semblance of feeling like a human being.

He sits up and glances around the room, spotting the opened bottle of whiskey, the missing glass… the man sitting in the corner, clearly the stranger… great.

“You want me to leave you alone, yet you won’t leave me alone.” He’s back to furrowing his brow and glaring at the other.

“I figured honesty is the best policy I can offer you now.” A swig of the liquor taken then.

“What?” There’s a tiny hint of excitement in Alan’s voice. Not good, but he can try to mask it. This might be a good step forward.

The other stood up, and walked towards the mirror, only slightly in the light. It was difficult to see, the lamps were very moody and definitely in need of adjustments. Alan took in the sight, the back of the man. Slicked back black hair, an expensive looking suit… Interesting.

Wake stood up and rushed closer, standing at his side, then looked at his face. Shock and confusion mixing together, blending into distress. He's not sure what to do or say. He opens his mouth trying to form words. The other moved closer and Alan steps back and back. But the night lends itself to The Herald. He easily used his powers to grab Wake and forces him to look at the mirror. There they both stand, side by side one another. Like two raindrops. The writer's terror grows, causing difficulty in processing what's happening.

"I don't have a twin..." he says pathetically.

"You don't. But you have a doppelganger." Scratch mutters back. Annoyance oozing off of his words. “But I take it this doesn’t help you remember or else you’d be at my throat by now.”

No reply.

It’s redundant to say he doesn’t understand, but it’s the truth of the matter. Instead, however, when he tries to say this and ask for clarification – it all comes out in jumbled words and broken syllables. Cut off and prone to long silences between them. It doesn’t take long before the man starts pacing around, bewildered, eventually sitting down on the bed and looking at the other one, terrified.

“What the fuck… This is… this is fucked up! This has to be some elaborate bullshit nightmare induced by something Barry gave me, right?”

The other rolls his eyes and makes a sound much like ‘ugh’ before approaching a chair next to the bed and flopping down into it.

“Barry, Barry, Barry… I should have gotten rid of him by now.  He’s such a nuisance. Honestly, I’m surprised your wife tolerates him as much as she does.”

“My… wife?”

A blank stare from the familiar stranger.

“Alan, tell me what do you remember last?”

 “Huh? Well… I mean, I’m… I remember looking for a job; I’m fresh out of college. Or, well, I was… definitely not now. I look… older. By much.”

“Alan, you’re in your 40s. You’ve been in the dark place for almost a decade. I don’t know how to break this to you but you are the author of Night Springs, the town we are in—there are no things here besides what the story requires. Everything else is left out. I’m taking pity on you now, but don’t expect much of that from me.”

With that, the suited figure stood and headed for the door.

“Wait, you can’t leave now— first, you talk nonsense and expect me to just accept it? At least give me a name!” The protest is understandable, but not wanted as the man doesn’t even look back to say the following:

“…Fine. I’m Mr. Scratch, or so is the pronounceable version of my name. Get rest.”

For once, despite his stubbornness, Alan complies out of his own will. He feels tired.

The following morning brings no clarity, but the pain insists on waking him. It’s a bitch, but he doesn’t know what to do—if there really isn’t a doctor here, well… at least not for miles in hell knows which direction, then what was he to do? Sure, it seemed he was fine, but the constant exhaustion and memory loss? Obviously not good signs at all. 

It takes a bit mustering up of motivation and all to sit up in bed, it is then that he sees the clothes folded on the chair. No note, but he assumes who left it there. Seeing as he was sleeping in his current outfit and how covered in dust it is… well, he jumps at the opportunity to change. Which he does after he gets out of the shower. The outfit fits well. It’s nothing too special, thankfully not a suit either. But it makes him look more serious despite the cowboy boots he decided to keep. Not too far off from what he’d choose to wear himself. Like it was taken straight out of his closet.

Alan steps out of the motel room, looking about. It must have been late in the afternoon possibly, judging by the setting sun. Damn, he was sure he slept far less than that. Yet, the garage next to the motel had its entrance open, with classic rock coming out of the inside. This was his chance. He rushed towards it.

Inside there was an old car, being worked on by a young woman. The blonde didn’t notice the other approach, seeing too entranced in what she was doing. Wake stepped forward till he was next to the car, but nothing. He opted out to bang onto the metal frame, this time it worked. The lady got out from where she was working on the engine and looked at him.

“Oh, hey, Mr. Wake. Back again with trouble?” She chuckles and it’s charming, yet oddly Alan’s heart doesn’t bounce much at that despite his weaknesses. Alan assumes he’s met her before whatever caused his injury and memory loss. But now wasn’t the best part to bring it up. He needed to get some aid.

“Hey. And no, not particularly. However, I have a request.”

“And that is?”

“I kind of hit my head… hard. Was wondering if you could take me to a doctor or somebody capable of checking it out?”

“Hmm…?” She seems to consider this for a moment, before glancing at the car she was working on and then out to the road. “Sure. Come back in ten minutes and I’ll take you.”

“Thank you.”

With a bit of an upbeat in his voice and walk, Alan decides to go back to the motel room to see if he can find some amount of money there. It’s when he rounds the corner out of the garage that he saw the other guy again. He was drinking beer, now. No mask this time but umbrella still in place. Was he really that afraid of the sun?

Wake was ready to walk past him, annoyed at the man’s secrecy and general bullshit. Hell, he didn’t even give off the right vibe. It’s when he is in close enough range that the other speaks and it halts the unfortunate bastard.

“I wouldn’t bother Emma much if I were you, Al.”

“Screw off!” Alan says as he walks past him.

“Always so self-absorbed… You never think of consequences, do you?” He hears that said in the back but isn’t sure if he wants to ruminate over it, let alone reply. He enters the motel room and begins his search.

Ten minutes later, maybe slightly more, he rushed out, with a wallet in his hands. It’s lacking any personal documents and bears little money, but it’s something and Alan wasn’t going to miss this opportunity.

He walks back to where he last saw Emma… or Scratch referred to her like that. There he spots her worriedly, sitting down. Looking slightly a mess, she notices him this time rather quickly.

“You said you were going to take care of those ax-crazies!” She jumps up and rushed to him.

“I what… What are you talking about?” A genuine reaction and she reads it easy. Stopping in her tracks with a hazy look on her delicate features, she looks about, trying to spot something that wasn’t there. The dark that has settled around the area feels tangible and heavy, Alan never noticed this before. 

“I mean, I had a hard time believing you at first, but now it made sense. Then you came back like nothing ever happened so I thought you took care of it all.” She explains, later crossing her arms and biting her lip.

“When I hit my head, I forgot… things. Not everything, but definitely whatever happened here. Emma, you need to tell me what you know about this.”

“I… don’t feel safe talking here. Can we go now?”

Alan nods; somehow sure that was the better idea.

It doesn’t take long to be on their way, her actual care being close by always. They don’t talk much when on the road, but it gives the amnesiac enough time to study the surrounding areas. But most of it is desert, nothing but desert. The only noteworthy thing he sees while driving out was the clerk from before, standing just out of the way… for whatever, reason with a shovel in hand. They locked eyes, following each other from their spots till Emma drove them out of sight of each other.

Alan could practically doze off for the rest of the road, seeing nothing but sand and sand. Seems past the small area of the motel, there wasn’t much except for the observatory on the hill. This, as it appeared, was where they were driving. Wake followed the blonde with his eyes as she got out of the car, rushed to the intercom next to the door of the building... She rang it several times before a woman’s voice came on. They talked rather quickly, a bit of pleading as it appeared from the young woman. Eventually, it seems they established something because Emma motioned for the man to get out of the car and follow her. He did just so.

When they climbed up the stairs to the observatory’s main floor, it’s there that they were met by an older looking scientist. Alan didn’t follow how she could help. Surely, despite her white coat, Emma didn’t think she was a doctor, right?

“Mr. Wake, this is Dr. Rachel Meadows.” Em’ explained matter of fact, sounding much calmer now.

“We’ve met before.” The lady said, sounding quite irritated. “Or does he not remember?”

“Afraid not.” Wake says, feeling tenser in her presence. She was a polar opposite of Emma, by far.

“Anyways, Emma says you came here to borrow my first aid kit. So help yourself.” The older woman then walked to the room further off. Alan narrowed his eyes.

“I might not look it, but I know how to take care of some wounds, Mr. Bestseller, so don’t worry about it. “

“What’s with that nickname?” As far as Alan knew, he was far from that title. So what the hell? She didn’t answer and rushed to the cabinet instead, where she took out the metal box. Great, just great.

“know, I know, with all my crystal meditation and herbs, but I mean—I’m a mechanic. They don’t let you do that junk without first aid courses.”

“Then why don’t you have a kit at your place?” She laughs, approaching him, but once again no answer comes.

The wound inspection didn’t take long, the girl hissing at first sight of it and then humming to herself as she cleaned it the rest of what she had to do.

“Done and done!” she announces after a good five minutes. That’s all it took. Alan sighs, whatever, as long as he’ll live after this. They both come upstairs to talk to Dr. Meadows but she seems distracted by the amount of work she had. Muttering something about a lost signal, but neither of the other two understood it.  Alan checked out the room, not spotting anything too great about it instead. He’s too out of it, looking at the large flashlight sitting on one of the shelves, feeling the need to grab it. Yet, the mechanic pokes his ribs and he instantly snaps out of it.

“Huh?”

“We’re heading back, right?” Emma’s voice is a bit antsy, but Wake doesn’t know what to do to help with it.  He just mutters an affirmation and watches her.

“Right.” Emma looks around, crossing her arms again and heading for the door. “Thanks for the help, Doc.” She says before exiting out of the room. Alan follows in a rush after her. The blonde doesn’t let up, not wasting a second to wait for him till she’s in the car.

“Hey, what’s the matter?” Alan asks, finally sitting down in the passenger seat.

“Nothing, just promise me you’ll take care of the creepy guys by the oil rig.”

Somehow this idea sounded simultaneously bad and like the right one. Or at least the right thing to do…

“I will.” He says despite himself and she appears to breathe easier as they leave the observatory.

 


	2. Chapter 2

He sinks and sinks deeper as he hears his name being called. A voice he can’t exactly place, but with every attempt to reach him, it sounds more and more desperate, tears obvious within it. It clenches the man’s heart but he can’t do much just float in the water, all his limbs sore, tired and worst of all—tied down by the liquid it seems. He can’t manage to move them. He can only drown.

“Alan, please! Alan!” It echoes strongly, becoming further and further from him and where he was.

A piercing shrill scream replaces the sobbing call of his name, long before it has a chance to go silent.

Alan jolts awake, sore and dry throat. The desert heat had no mercy on his body, even when he slept. Blinking, thinking if he dreamt that or really heard it… Wake got up from where he was curled up on the bed, feeling his legs and arms as if they were heavier. Weighing him down towards the floor when he stood up. There was an edging thought at the end of his brain, telling him to remember something; all he knows is that it’s a name. He’s trying to remember a name but nothing comes to him at all.

All he sees is blonde woman, lithe in her frame as she’s walking away from him in a field. Was it Emma?

Pushing all past it all, he walked to the door, ready to almost collapse into it. He rests against the doorframe, breathing heavy and not understanding fully why this has happened to him. He needed answers to his questions and less cryptic trivia. He needed Mr. Unpronounceable to cooperate. But how the hell was he supposed to achieve that? Winning the guy over seemed difficult and probably a bigger hassle than Alan had the patience to deal with; however, it also seemed like his only option.

Despite the lightness in his head and the somewhat wavering sight, Alan took a deep breath and stepped out of the dusty room, focusing all his energy to take his steps carefully so as to not fall once out the door. Thankfully, eventually, his head sorted from the motion that started this and let him feel somewhat functional. His eyes strain under the light but it seems the sun was setting then, though he had no clue what time it was… It simply seemed like a summer evening.

The man approaches the garage expecting to hear sounds of metal on metal from there, some sort of evidence of a busy bee at work. But instead, a faint sound of the radio played and everything else was silent. Assumes a break is being taken… but once Wake gets to the opening, he spots nobody there…

Concerned, he ventures further inside. Looking about, making sure to take in every speck of the area for any hints, it is when he rounds the corner behind one of the shelves that he his entire body freezes up. Emma wasn’t there, at all. But surely she couldn’t be far?  He thinks so at least. One couldn’t get far away from here on foot, right? Worry seeps deep into his being, soaking his inner organs to the point of feeling unwell again. He leans against the pickup truck there, thinking of where else could he look for the girl.

He concludes she must have temporarily left; he calms himself like that and spends a while looking for her around the motel to no avail. It isn’t until he dares to go behind the motel that he spots a trailer there and a figure sitting in the doorway of it. It isn’t Emma.

Nope, it’s the look-alike instead. He’s still shielding himself from the sun and Wake thinks of photodermatitis… Doesn’t know if there is any merit to it.

“Hey, have you seen the girl?” He raises his voice slightly to be heard and catch the other’s attention, yet it feels like he’s always been in the man’s sight. Even when it was illogical.

“Which one, there’s several of them…” The suited one asks, raising his head slightly.

Alan groans. Frustrated.

“Emma. Have you seen Emma.”

“I warned you, Al.” The guy laughs then, standing and opening an umbrella as he does, soon standing under it and peering at the supposed writer. “There are consequences to your actions. You’re all grown up, think you should realize that.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Alan steps into the double’s space, glaring at him fully irritated.

“So hotheaded…” There’s a grin on the mirror image. It’s nauseating, makes Wake’s body ache with sickening thoughts he doesn’t comprehend. They all rush through his head, and all he can do is frown at the other.

“Where’s Emma?”

“When you’ll remember, you’ll know.” Okay, so the guy was of no help. Wake huffs, stepping back and shooting him one more dirty look before heading further away. “What are you gonna do, Alan? Now that you have no help?”

Alan freezes, unsure how to respond or even if he should, it felt lowly. So he glares for one more second before turning around and walking away.

The consideration of looking for Dr. Rachel Meadows at the observatory occurs to him, he should be logical with his actions, after all. But the concern of fate following him to her worries him, yet he doesn’t have many options.

Wake steps out of his comfort zone then, he walks back into the garage and wrecks the whole place while looking for a the keys to the truck. With little luck, he eventually succeeds hard persistence and all that. He takes them out and jingles them front of himself, unsure. It’s only when he’s in the car chanting ‘please be the right keys’ that he really realizes how desperate he really is.

When the engine revved up and he drives out of the building is he certainly pleased the damn thing even works. Emma knew what she was doing, working smart rather than not. He drives to the place in rush, speeding to a dangerous point. But he wanted to put as many miles as he could between himself and the creep.

The sun sets by that point. It’s the dead of a late evening, quiet, save only not for some far off sound.  Alan steps out the vehicle, worried and walks towards the door, pressing the call button a couple of times to no avail. Nobody comes to the door, nobody picks up.

“Come on…” Alan mutters, pressing the button repeatedly, in a quickening pace that hurts his finger.

Eventually, though, he gives up.

“Dammit.” Is the seal on the situation before he steps away from the door and begins pacing around the grounds. There had to be a way in, he thought, but couldn’t find it. Instead…

There he was. Again. Looking off the hilltop, staring into the panorama of the area in the night. Alan hesitated before he couldn’t fight down the anger.

“So now you’re following me?”

A laugh from the other as he turns around, looking cheerier than ever before.

“You’re always in my sights, Wake; that much is true.”

Alan grits his teeth at that.

“What the hell do you want from me, then?”

“You still can’t see… Even with all that taken away, you still can’t see that you’re mine. You belong to me, if not as a half, then as an enemy. You’re not meant to distract yourself with these pathetic set-pieces. They’re just decorations while I’m the one acting along with you.”

“What the hell are you on about!?”

“I removed the distractions at hand, does that help you remember?”

Part of Alan is confused, but only for a short while, he thinks of what the other could mean and it strikes him as very obvious. But could the other actually do it?  Was it really feasible or was this guy talking out of his ass? He had to be… There’s no way this guy could be capable of something this sinister. It made no sense. But in the back of his head, there’s something scratching and it isn’t the injury.

The blood in his body rushes to his head, he jumps running to where that bastard was. But as soon as he got within the vicinity of the suited prick, he got grabbed and pushed back till he staggered further from the edge where the other man stood.

“Come now, Alan, you don’t need another fall – do you?”

“But you do!” Wake yells back moving towards the look-alike again, before freezing up. Another? Is that what happened to him? The other man smiles, before forming an ‘o’ shape with his mouth, faux surprise. Overacting.

“Oh, that’s cute, you’re remembering, aren’t you?”

“I—you threw me off a cliff?” It’s obviously a question, the loss in the author’s words obvious. He’s unsure. He isn’t set in stone with his opinion yet. It infuriates the double. Even if Alan’s still angry, in his furrowed brow and stance, the confusion doesn’t help him.

“Oh, come on, how much more obvious can I get with this!” Mr. Scratch steps closer, looking equally pissed off.

“Why? What the hell do you want from me!?” The writer seems about ready to storm back up towards the other man, perhaps make him tumble down himself. But Scratch doesn’t flinch, lets the other grab onto his collar, get up in his face, yell. “Just because we share a god damn face? You think you have some right into my life!? I don’t own you shit.”

The suited one rolls his eyes, then in a fluid and rapid motion grabs Wake by his throat, hoist him up by it somehow… But then drops him down just quickly, till he’s on the ground, gasping for air.

“I was so polite, so nice to you… And this is the thanks I get?” The double walks around Alan, kneels behind his back and lets his arms settle into a chokehold behind the writer.

“Tell me, Alan… Why do you hate me? I’m trying to find common ground with you, but even with your memory gone you act like you’re better. You’re not. We’re the same, in the long run. If anything, I’m the better you, actually, but that won’t stop this. You’re useless now, so I might as well dispose of you… but what would that mean to me? It’d be an inconvenience.”

“Screw. You.” Wake breathes out, nostrils flaring up as he finds huge discomfort in the hold. Fights against it, trying to find leverage.

“Always tempting me, huh?” Mr. Scratch smirks, pressing closer to Alan’s ear. “I’ll give you another chance. Fix yourself up and come back to me.”

He then manages to even more so press harder against Alan’s throat, till air becomes too hard to obtain. A luxury he wishes he could afford then. Before too much time passes, Alan goes out like a light… Mr. Scratch notes that, thinks of it as amusing. But still, he doesn’t laugh. There are other matters at hand.

* * *

 

Alan awakes.

He’s in a place he doesn’t recognize, it’s a town. He thinks so at least. He’s sitting in an empty diner. Until there’s something that forces him to stand up and walk out. He must be wandering around the town for what should have been hours, but they didn’t feel like that quite. Not a single soul in sight. He keeps going; however, futile and dreadful it feels, Wake keeps walking onwards. Looking for somebody in the town who could answer him… As to where he is as every sign feels blurry. He doesn’t remember how, but he ends up in a field. He sees a woman, walking through there. Alan runs to her, hoping for an explanation… He calls for her, by a name he can’t make out, but then—then she turns at the edge of the dark forest. The man thinks he’s about to see her face, but…

…then, Alan woke up.

* * *

 

He’s back in the old, filthy motel. Same room as before. Alan sits up on the bed in a speed suggesting urgency, grabs the phone by the bed, but no sound comes out of it. No beeps, nothing even as he taps the buttons familiar to most citizens at a young age-- 911. He looks around for a possible reason as to why this is when nobody picks up for much too long.  The damn thing’s cable was cut.

Alan rushed out of the room, hurrying en route for the reception room. In there he grabs the phone for much of the same result but this time without the cut wire.

Alan leans against the wall, letting himself slide against it to the floor. There he drags his legs to his chest, loops his arms around them and rest his head against it. It was in pain now, but the persistent thought carried itself around his head, on its own high horse.

The thought wasn’t magnificent, just a simple “What the hell was he supposed to do?” really. But it was driving him mad… He couldn’t think of anything…

God…He just kept ruminating over how screwed he was.

The sudden surge of anger and self-pity culminates in him, kicking the front desk, that slightly moves under impact and a paper falls from it. Alan is just about to disregard it when out of the corner of his sight, he becomes curious about the bold lettering. When he looks over and reads it, however, he finds no real answer.

Just a name.

‘Thomas Zane.’

Not a name he recognized, not something that would help him at all… Alan felt vulnerable.

Whatever the other guy was planning or capable of, Wake was certain he’ll catch the short end of the stick here. There is probably no  way out of here alive, he was in trouble beyond belief. What’s a man to do, though? Emma mentioned something about an oil rig, but how was he supposed to do anything if they were also even remotely as dangerous as the double? And would that even help now that she was gone?

He stands up, adjusting himself for a moment before heading out of the small quarters. The ‘would-be writer’ walks across the vacant street and makes his way into gas station building. There, he looks around, giving in to the urge of picking up a flashlight. Least it could help him with investigating what’s up with the rig and all. It was dark. He weighs it in his hand, gets a feel for it and steps up to the cash register, pulling out the wallet he had found earlier. The cashier walks out of the small room once more, this time stopping short of the desk. He looks…blank. Even paler than before, which Alan must admit he didn’t think was possible.

“We do not accept card.” The clerk says, grabbing something nearby. Which as it turns out was a gun. He fires several shots at Alan who misses them by a smidge, rushing behind some of the shelves. He trips along the way, finding himself on the flooring. Alan Wake – terrified for his life.

Soon enough the clerk rounds the corner and Wake aims the flashlight in his hands at the other’s face, somehow it feels more intense than he’s ever seen a torch shine. The clerk collapses, inky block floating out of him. Confused and scared, Alan acts on impulse by grabbing the gun and firing a shot or two at the kid.

He breathes easier until he doesn’t. Instead, once again bewildered when the body vanishes like dust blown away by wind. Ashes lost in the desert… but that made no sense. Alan steps back, until he hits the freezer at the end, falls there.

Scared, confused… Still holding onto the gun like his life depended on it.

“What the hell was that…?” His voice goes hoarse, quivering slightly. The cold chills traveling through his body in an echoing pattern. His limbs freezing up, unable to move. He stays like that for a while, looking for any justification of what he just saw and how he should react to it. Looking for how to cope and make sense of it all. Despite the effort, nothing comes. Alan is left there, alone, with foggy thoughts of what he just saw. His body eventually aches from the position he’s in, muscles in the legs and arms cramp, so he pulls himself up, carefully pacing around the store till the sores go away.  But the addled thought process persists…

Wake thinks he can’t stay hiding in the damn gas station for long, it’s not a good plan and it’s a coward’s way around it. So he does what he’s always done, is with lack of better judgment. The man find the box of bullets, stuffs them in his pants and strides out of the building, looks around till he locates the oil rig and heads to it.

His feet hit the desert floor, raising clouds of dust, but he keeps at it. Keeps walking. Determination somewhat there, a faint voice saying this is a bad idea, but what was Alan if he was not stubborn. He continues. Persist through the various voices in his head, all his, giving him all the reasons why this might be a bad idea and how terribly he might die. But Wake decides, this might be not so bad in comparison to being trapped here with some prick toying with him. Possibly for forever. Tag on ‘for forever’ to anything and it becomes hell… sure, he could manage to a certain extent, but at some point—he just would break. Something would go awry, and then who knows what that might end with. Maybe that’d be Alan’s first murder? Or Alan’s decision to end it all? Who knows?

He stops at the rig, looks around, it’s empty. Not a single soul, not a single hint of anybody there. Odd. Emma mentioned some folks hanging around here, but at that moment it was empty. Somehow that just… unnerved Alan. He had no clue what to do now. He thought he figured out what the next step was but apparently he had not.

Instead, he chooses to investigate the area. Most of the things there were pretty useless, tools and alike, he goes through everything rather quickly as there’s no hint of somebody being there recently at all. Bewildered by this Alan sighs, then tries to decide what to do next but surprisingly no logical step comes to mind.

But illogical, on the other hand? There is something in him, calling him to go a certain way. So Wake follows through the lead path of what feels loosely familiar, but not quite familiar enough. His legs move on their own more so than he thinks of where to place them. Imagine his surprise when he makes his way around a corner and spots a broken-down cabin, looking like it crashed there.

Not a single soul in sight still.

Having aimed his gun and flashlight on impulse, he prepared to enter, even if on the other hand his fear was pulling him away.

At first, he starts cautiously, ensuring himself after inspection that he will not fall down a pit or something of the like when he tries to go inside. A slow and measured foot forward, he invades the broken down space, letting his presence interfere with the tangible shadows, the light cutting through them like a knife. He glances around, takes in the furniture, books and decorations. The knickknacks all around seemed odd and yet known almost like they were close to him. He shifts, despite this, uncomfortable at the little wooden rocking horse. Its paint had chipped and it looks worse for wear as if it had been a child’s favorite, used constantly until grown out of. Or it might have been Alan’s imagination running circles, and whatever had happened to the cabin had affected it as well… Yet, whispers told him otherwise.

He moves forward, then in zigzags, as he scrutinizes everything in the small wooden building. It’s wrecked, upon impact or due to whatever else might have happened. He only bothers moving upstairs when he senses there is nothing else to see below.

On the second floor, he takes a turn right and comes into a bedroom, flashing a memory of the dream lady in his head but he can’t manage to remove the cobwebs from it, he can’t place in the details. Spots the painting on the wall and it unnerves him. Alan feels unwell in this room, oppressed by some heavy thoughts that he can’t put a name to. Wake leaves the room, feeling unwell, choosing to dart into the opposite room.

He spots a book dropped next to the door.  The same name— Zane— repeating now in the author’s place. But surely, the man couldn’t blame himself for not knowing who this was. Especially after whatever he’s been having going on at that the moment. He raises his eyes, scanning what appears to the study or at least an office of some sort in some life. Alan’s eyes settle on a typewriter and something floods him, emotions and urgency to ensure it is functional. He rushes to it, dropping to his knee. Settles it steady on the floor and upright, presses the letters and watches as the type hammers knock into place, printing out his random jumble of test lettering. A sigh of relief, yet he’s unsure why. Wake feels better knowing that it works. He feels safer than he did from the start of this ordeal.

He stands with seemingly a better sense of purpose. He was called a writer or at least implied to be one by the others. Maybe that has something to do with what has brought him here and did this to him. If he can only manage to remember… he’d be in a better spot.

But this was a good place to start.


End file.
